6

As the car approached the Hôtel du Cap, Katharine leaned forward. The magnificent façade was floodlit. The building was pearl-white in the arc lamplight, roofed in grey, with the grandeur of the classic French château. On the sweep of gravel in front the most expensive cars in the world waited for their owners to go inside, and the attendants to drive them to their garages. Crimson geraniums were banked on either side of the steps leading to a huge entrance, glass-plated and combining the best of modern design with the classicism of the architecture. She turned to Roulier as the car stopped and said, ‘My God! I’ve never seen anything like it –’ She saw him look at her and smile.

‘The most expensive hotel in the world and the most luxurious. Pretend you are a millionairess, Kate.’

The door was opened and she got out. An exceptionally handsome young man hurried to Paul Roulier. The baggage would be sent up and the car put away. Paul gently took her arm as they walked up the steps to the splendid entrance. She gazed round her while he went to reception and registered. Enormous custom-built sofas with handsome glass-topped tables, a spiral staircase in the centre, built round an old-fashioned type of cage lift that whispered up and down behind its gilded gates. Flowers everywhere, superbly arranged. A chatter of American voices, some guttural German that made her jump.

A good-looking man in a cream suit approached her, followed by Paul Roulier. He introduced himself as the manager, shook hands, and hoped she would like her suite. Roulier said, ‘I have the keys. I’ll take you upstairs first, they’ll bring your bags. The lift?’ Her amazement was amusing him and he didn’t try to hide it.

She gave him a challenging smile. ‘Why not? Millionaires don’t walk.’

‘Round here they do,’ he said as they glided up one flight. ‘And they play tennis. You’ll see more well-preserved seventy-year-olds here than anywhere else. With occasionally a very beautiful wife.’

The room was exceptionally decorated, by any standard, and a lovely arrangement of roses and carnations was on the writing table. The page appeared with her suitcase. It looked so shabby that she laughed. Paul tipped him, and they were alone. Katharine said, ‘You’re not paying for all this, are you?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Only for myself. I have a room down the corridor. It’s a very agreeable place to stay. And I want you to enjoy it. Shall I come back in twenty minutes and we can have a drink in the bar?’

Don’t bother to bring many clothes, he had told her. Now she understood why. Nothing Colonel Alfurd’s widow possessed would be suitable. When she opened the wardrobe door to hang up the summer dresses and casual shirts and trousers she had brought, she found half a dozen brand-new outfits with her name on a card pinned to each. The size was right. The shoes fitted perfectly. When she saw the handbags in their cellophane wrappings, she slammed the cupboard door.

When he came back as he’d arranged, he found her wearing one of her own dresses. She saw the quick glance, and the slight frown. She walked past him and towards the stairs. ‘Let’s walk down, shall we?’ She didn’t wait but let him follow.

In the main hall she hesitated. He came beside her, and said gently, ‘The bar is through that archway to the right. I’ve ordered champagne.’

Beautiful, Katharine thought. More grand flower pieces, glittering glass and buttercup yellow and white. The first actual bar I’ve ever seen that didn’t look vulgar. The carpet was a museum piece. He led her to a table in the corner. All the others were occupied. When they sat down he offered her a cigarette.

‘I’m sorry about the clothes,’ he said. ‘That was a mistake. They can be sent back.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. What a waste of money otherwise.’

‘Please don’t be angry.’

‘I’m not angry. I’m sure you meant well, or whoever is footing the bill, but I prefer my own clothes. If they’re not up to standard for a hotel like this, you shouldn’t have brought me.’ She tapped the cigarette end and knocked ash into the ashtray. ‘I can’t offer to pay my own bill, but I don’t want to feel any more beholden than I have to. That made me very uncomfortable indeed.’

He bowed his head a little in apology. ‘Will you forgive me? A Frenchwoman wouldn’t have minded. She’d have looked at the labels first.’

‘Maybe I’ve lived too long in England. What are the labels, by the way?’

‘I thought Lanvin would suit you,’ he answered. ‘Here’s our champagne. Tell me something, Kate?’

‘What? Thank you,’ she said to the waiter, ‘that’s lovely.’

‘Why do you trust me?’ She sipped the drink. It was perfect. A middle-aged woman at the table called the waiter. She gave her order in German. The head barman answered in the same language. She was smart and very handsome, with a burly husband, burnt cork-brown by the sun. ‘I didn’t expect they’d come here,’ Kate said. ‘It’s a very odd feeling, hearing them talk, and seeing how natural everyone is. So friendly. She’s just looked over and smiled at me and I’ve smiled back. It’s the same hotel in the same place, but they’ve done more than gut it and bring everything up to date. They’ve wiped out the past.’ She held the chilled glass in both hands. ‘You wouldn’t understand what I mean. You’re too young.’

‘I understand very well,’ Paul Roulier answered quietly. ‘I’m glad you’ve noticed it. I think it’s very important. When you’re ready, we can go down to the restaurant and have dinner. And you haven’t answered my question.’

‘No,’ Katharine admitted, ‘I haven’t. Because I don’t know the answer yet. I just followed my instinct when I met you. I trusted you then and I trust you now. I can’t give you any reasons.’ He got up and held his hand out to help her up.

‘I don’t want any reasons,’ he said. ‘Just reassurance. You can be very formidable when you’re angry. For a moment I was afraid I’d lost your confidence.’

‘I was afraid I’d lost my independence,’ she retorted. ‘So we’re quits. I’m hungry, aren’t you?’ They went down a wide flight of steps into the moonlit garden, along a gravelled pathway to the restaurant built overlooking the sea.

They didn’t talk about the war. They discussed the menu, the other diners; they relaxed very quickly and conversation was surprisingly easy. She wasn’t smartly dressed, but somehow it didn’t matter. People looked at her anyway. She was a fascinating woman, Roulier admitted, with a vivacious personality that commanded attention. In the soft lighting of one of the most flattering settings in the world for any woman, she looked deceptively young. Beautiful wasn’t too strong a word, even at her age. The fine features were as clear-cut as ever, and she had eyes that sparkled.… He stopped himself thinking any further because there were twenty-odd years between them, and in the morning it would all be different. The new wardrobe hadn’t been his idea. No more mistakes like that; he’d make that very plain. He’d agreed against his own judgement, treating an exceptional woman like an ordinary vain and greedy one.

They walked back up the long slope, with its discreet lighting all along the route, and the majestic hotel blazing like a palace ahead of them. This time he didn’t take her arm. It was very odd, the desire to go to bed with a woman so much older. He’d never experienced it before. By the morning, he told himself again, it would be different. Katharine stopped outside her bedroom door.

‘What a wonderful dinner,’ she said. ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for many years. Thank you, Paul.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, and left her quickly. She sat by the window looking out over the gardens towards the distant sea. A soft breeze carried the familiar scents of pine trees and thyme and the faint tang of salt in the air. So very different from the last time she had come to the coast. 1947, when the scars of war were still bleeding in so many parts of France. But the beautiful coast had escaped. The thrust of the Allied armies hadn’t penetrated there. The retreating Germans had left it as they came, with minimum destruction. But the bitterness and the denunciations were as lethal as bombs and battles were fought from street to street. The prisons were full; men and women accused of collaborating were being tried and punished, and each village held its own court martial and condemned the guilty. Those who had supported the Nazis were driven out; women who consorted with them weren’t shaved and publicly exhibited any more. At least that horror had stopped, but the denunciations flowed into the police. Old spites were settled, and many suffered who were innocent. Katharine had come back to give evidence at the trial of one of the worst traitors in the war.

He had walked out of the court a free man. She left the window and began to undress. Tomorrow she would make the first of several pilgrimages. To the house where she and Dulac had spent the last weeks of their lives together. The empty house which had belonged to a family of murdered Jews. Their last act had been to give their friend Dulac the key.

‘If you don’t mind,’ Katharine Alfurd said, ‘I’d rather go there alone. I only want to see if it’s still there.’

Paul Roulier said, ‘Of course. You take the car; I have some things to do this morning, and I hope to have a very important appointment set up for tomorrow.’

‘What sort of appointment? For me?’

‘For both of us,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll be able to tell you about it when you get back.’ He took her hand and kissed it. It was a lovely drive along the old coast road to Nice. Antibes itself was small and picturesque, an ancient coastal port with its fortress jutting out over the sea, and yachts at rest in the marina, flying every nation’s flag in a light breeze.

The broad sweep of the beaches, flanked by hotels and the handsome private villas set back behind trees and hedges. The palms, majestic and timeless as ever, symbols of the sun, and a benevolent climate where the rich could escape winter’s cold. Children bobbing in the sea, shouting in the distance and laughing. Sunbathers stretched out in sleepy worship, fleets of cars jamming the roads at traffic lights, the yachts in the blue distance and a cruise ship on the horizon. She noticed the changes, the splendid new hotels, sheeted in glass that caught fire from the sun, the shopping centres on the front with magic names like Dior and St Laurent, ogled by women tourists window-shopping. The beach shops with their colourful goods spilling out on to the pavements, proprietors sunning themselves and chatting. The old railway line running parallel, unchanged from forty years ago. People drinking coffee at tables under bright umbrellas.

It was so long since Kate had driven on the right-hand side of the road. Nice was beautiful in the daylight. Handsome shops and hotel buildings, the white wedding-cake Negresco, with its distinctive awning and the brilliant flowers and shrubs flanking the entrance. Wealth and security were as obvious as the flags flying from the hotel roofs. France was rich and living well, enjoying the present and confident about the future. The past was a small black cloud that nobody wanted to look at anymore. Until Christian Eilenburg was extradited from Chile. She could imagine how embarrassing that must have been, how a lot of people would resent the bloodied waters being stirred up when they had been calm for so long. She turned into the town centre, climbing up the hill, stalling the car once at a traffic light. Up and then leftward, leaving the smart shopping centres behind, going into the sedate residential area of the prosperous middle classes who lived and worked in Nice. There was the street that she remembered; a pleasant tree-shaded road, with houses on either side. Nice houses, fresh with paint and colourful shutters. The house was the last on the left-hand side, set back a little from the road, not as far back as she thought, but then some of the sheltering trees had been cut down. She stopped, got out and walked to the gate. The name had not been changed. La Rosée. She pushed it open and walked up to the front door. It was different of course. It seemed much smaller, less overshadowed. The sun beat down on it, and the door was painted a bright yellow. Baskets of flowers hung on either side, and there was a child’s tricycle parked up against the wall. She thought of the bicycle that had carried her so many miles all those years ago. There, to the rear of the house, was the thicket of bushes where she used to hide it.… She didn’t ring the bell, because there was a dog barking inside, and a woman looked out of the window. ‘Yes?’ she called out.

Kate said, ‘Excuse me, I used to live here. I was only having a look.’

The window shut and a moment later the door opened. The woman standing inside was quite young; she looked suspicious. ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t like people poking round. It upsets the dog.’

Kate came a little nearer. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Ten years. You say you used to live here?’ Curiosity was getting the better of her, but she still held the door and didn’t ask Kate to come in.

‘I stayed here,’ Kate replied. ‘During the war. I haven’t been back since.’

‘Oh, I don’t know anything about that.’ The reply was brisk, all interest gone. ‘That’s well before my time. You’ll excuse me.’ The door was firmly shut. She turned slowly and walked back down the short path, pushed the wrought iron gate open and latched it shut behind her. There was no atmosphere, no charging of the emotions. The house could have been any house in the street, impersonal, inhabited by strangers.

Kate got into the car, switched on and reversed out of the road. She felt overborne by sadness, and that sadness was turning into the pain of grief she had suppressed and denied for most of her life.

The factory had gone. Katharine Alfurd stood looking at the site. The two-storied building, painted an ugly grey, with blind windows and the side door which they had used to get inside, creaking on a broken hinge, was like a phantasm before her eyes. The reality of a modern supermarket took several seconds to break through the illusion. Nothing remained; the past was obliterated, like the old factory. There was no imprint of tragedy except what she carried on the negative of her memory. She put the car into gear and drove slowly back to Cap d’Antibes.

He was waiting for her when she walked into the hotel. That didn’t seem real either, even when he came up and took her arm. A handsome American couple passed them on their way to play tennis. Young and vigorous, the golden rich of the new age.

‘Come and have a drink,’ Paul Roulier said quietly, ‘and tell me about your morning.’ She made an effort to smile. ‘Not much to tell, I’m afraid. A drink would be nice. I found my trip down memory lane worse than I expected.’

She was silent for some time. He didn’t press her. He noticed a slight tremor when she lifted her glass of wine.

‘Would you like some lunch?’

‘I’m not hungry, thanks. Don’t let me stop you.’

In the end he said, ‘Tell me about it; it’ll make it easier if you can share it.’

‘Share it?’ she asked him. ‘I can’t share it with anyone. I’m the only one left. I went back to the house we hid in at the end. The woman wouldn’t let me in. It looked different, but I should have expected that. The factory was pulled down, of course. There was a huge supermarket instead. Nothing left, Paul. Nothing to show what happened. May 13th, it was. A Thursday, not Friday. That would have been too ironic, wouldn’t it? That was when we got the message. Just after seven o’clock in the evening, and the radio was crackling and I couldn’t hear properly for ages. It seemed like ages anyway. You don’t know about that, do you?’

Roulier shook his head. ‘No.’ She stared past him to the view down the splendid steps, flanked by banked geraniums of luscious pink. The sea shimmered in the distance. ‘The candle of the wicked,’ she said slowly. ‘That was the signal sent that night. The candle of the wicked shall be put out. It was the code for the Invasion of Europe. Every network knew it, and knew what to do when it came. And we did it, Paul. Without pausing to think. At dawn the next morning the Maquis blew up the section of railway line connecting with the main terminal at Marseilles; it was heavily guarded and they were caught in a gun battle with German troops. Most of them were killed. And Jean mounted an attack on the power station.’ He wanted to reach out and take her hand, but he didn’t move. ‘We never questioned. The rumours spread of course, and everyone believed there’d been a landing and the Germans were censoring it. But no one heard it on the wireless. Only me, transmitted direct from London.’

‘It would have been broadcast on the BBC French Service,’ Roulier said. ‘If it had been genuine.’

‘Yes,’ Katharine Alfurd said. ‘If it had been genuine. I have never known what made them do it, I only know they did.’

He made up his mind. The timing was right. ‘That’s what we are going to find out,’ he said. ‘Why did the British send the local Resistance and the Maquis to their deaths? Christian Eilenburg is going to be tried for killing your comrades, for driving the hero Jean Dulac to commit suicide. But it was your own people who betrayed them. And you’re the only one who escaped and knows what they did.’

Kate said quietly, ‘Are you working for the Germans?’

‘No.’ She believed him. ‘I’ve got permission for us to visit Eilenburg in Marseilles prison. Tomorrow morning. Will you see him?’

‘That’s the appointment?’ He nodded; he felt very tense; waiting for her reaction. Everything, months of preparation, the time spent gaining her confidence, the money involved, all depended upon her answer. Kate said, ‘Who are you working for?’

He said, ‘When you’ve seen Eilenburg I’ll tell you.’

She got up. ‘What time in the morning?’

He reached out and gripped her arm. ‘Ten thirty. You are brave, Kate.’

‘Not really,’ she answered. ‘An old man in a jail, forty years later. Would you mind if I spent the afternoon by myself?’

‘If that’s what you want,’ he said. ‘There’s a beautiful private beach here, I can arrange.…’

She interrupted him. ‘No thanks, I don’t feel in the mood for lying in the sun. I’ll just go and wander round.’

‘Don’t worry about tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you.’

She smiled at him but didn’t seem to hear. He watched her walk out of the bar, and when she was out of sight he called the head barman. ‘I want to make a telephone call in private,’ he said.

‘Of course. This way, Monsieur.’ He was shown into the games room at the back. He dialled a number, spoke a name, and then said, ‘She’s going to Marseilles to see him. I’m very confident. But she’s insisting I tell her who my client is.’ He listened for a moment and then said, ‘Very well. I’ll be in contact after the meeting. Yes, yes, he’s had the message. Everything has been arranged. Until tomorrow.’

The police in Nice had no report of a Mrs Alfurd registering at any of the hotels or pensions. Immigration at the airport had no record of the name either, but that meant she had already arrived. The authorities at Cannes were notified and they included Juan les Pins and Antibes. It took time, and time was at a premium if Katharine Alfurd was to be reached and stopped. It was out of the hands of old warhorses like Colonel Reed and Lord Wroxham; the young hard-liners of modern Intelligence were given the scent and told to find the quarry. It didn’t take them long.

Kate was sitting at a café on the quay at Antibes. It was hot and she was thirsty after the long walk down from the hotel. Sunglasses protected her eyes from the glare, and they gave her a brief respite from detection. There were a number of women her age wandering round Antibes, or sitting in cafés and bars. Women with dark hair slightly touched with grey, slim, medium height and possibly with a younger man who was French. For over thirty years Kate had lived in a country at peace, where the senses were asleep to danger. At home in Amdale she wouldn’t have noticed the man, but unconsciously she was thinking as if the past were now, and the old responses woke and watched for danger. He was looking for someone. He was looking at faces as he sauntered past so casually, with a sweeping glance that only lingered on women. On one woman, who was middle-aged and American, with a camera slung round her neck and postcards on the table. And then passed on to her. And away, and then back again. He took a seat not far from her. Not sure, because of the sunglasses. Kate didn’t argue with her instinct. She trusted it then as she had done so many years ago, when every German soldier was an enemy and every glance a menace.

She signalled the waiter, and ordered a cup of coffee and an ice cream. The young man was looking at her without looking, as only a professional can. Kate picked up her bag, opened it, pretended to fiddle with a powder compact. Money, a handkerchief, make-up. No identification. She crumpled the few notes in her hand, shut the bag and left it on her chair. She got up and went inside to the lavatory. The man didn’t follow or move. She had done what no woman ever does, leave her handbag behind. Not a newspaper or a book as a marker, but a careless hostage, guaranteeing she’d be back in a few minutes. She left the café by the kitchen entrance, and without knowing why or what was threatening her, she ran down to the main square. There were no taxis. Five minutes at the most, and whoever the man was he’d realize she’d tricked him and begin to look for her. She dared not try to get back to the hotel on foot; there was a bus stop, with a little group of people waiting. Kate hurried across the road, and as she did so, the bus to Cannes came round the corner. She pushed her way through and jumped inside. Ten minutes later it set her down a short walk from the Hôtel du Cap.

‘Good afternoon, Madame,’ the smiling doorman greeted her.

She didn’t answer. She went up to Roulier’s room. There was no answer. She shut herself in her own room, trembling and out of breath. She rang down to reception. Monsieur Roulier – no, he’s not in his room, can you page him, please? ‘He went out, Madame. Some time ago.’

Kate said, ‘Ring me the moment he comes back,’ and hung up. And then began to think she had imagined it, that the man in the café was perfectly innocent, and she’d behaved like a panic-stricken fool. There was one way to make sure, she thought. A good memory was a blessing. The name of the café at Antibes. She got the number through the switchboard. She’d left her bag behind and forgotten her bill. The reply was meant to be reassuring. A gentleman had collected Madame’s bag and paid her bill. Kate said, ‘Thank you.’

‘It could be dangerous for you,’ Roulier had said, and when she queried the choice of the Hôtel du Cap, ‘Nobody will think of looking for you there.’

She had forgotten until that afternoon what it felt like to be afraid for her life.

He didn’t waste time when she told him. His face closed up, as if a shutter had dropped. He didn’t argue or ask more than one or two sharp questions. Then he nodded and said, ‘I was afraid this might happen. But not so quickly.’

Kate said, ‘Who’s looking for me? Do you know?’

‘The English, I suspect, backed by certain French interests. They’ve moved very fast.’ He frowned, hesitated and then said, ‘We must get to Marseilles tomorrow. That’s the first consideration.’

‘Not my safety?’ Kate asked the question quietly.

He said, ‘If you’re afraid, you can go back to England tonight. But I don’t think you will.’

‘You said nobody would think of looking for me here. But this hotel has to submit a list of registered foreigners like any other place.’

He was thinking aloud. ‘They’d try Nice first,’ he said. ‘They’d assume you’d stay there. But you were seen in Antibes, which means they’ve found nothing in Nice and are looking further afield. Now they know you’re here, because you ran away. That was a stupid thing to do. Kate, you can’t stay here now. But we won’t check out. There’s a private villa, very close; we can go there tonight and on to Marseilles tomorrow.’

‘Why didn’t we go there in the first place?’ she demanded. ‘Who owns this villa?’

‘I can’t tell you that until you’ve seen Eilenburg,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to trust me. Don’t take anything but what you need for tonight. We’ll slip out after dinner and say nothing at the hotel. Excuse me; I’ll meet you downstairs.’

The man who had taken her handbag made his report. No identification, but the photograph matched. The suspect had made a run for it and he’d lost contact. She was in the Antibes area and should be traced within the next twelve hours. He listened to his instructions; they came direct from Paris. Mrs Alfurd was to be persuaded to return to England. He queried the word persuaded. It had a wide interpretation. Eliminated? Eliminated if necessary but only as a last resort. Understood. What about the man with her? No action to be taken against a French national unless it was untraceable. The agent understood again. He had a wide brief. He started that same evening with the smaller pensions and hotels.

Roulier drove into the villa in darkness. Kate couldn’t see much of it, because there were no lights outside, and they went in through what was obviously a back door and up a rear staircase. He guided her along a corridor that opened out into a handsome landing, and opened a door for her. ‘You’ll be comfortable for tonight,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe here. Sleep well, and I’ll come for you in the morning. We’ll leave at eight. Good night.’ He kissed her quickly and unexpectedly on the cheek and then hurried away. There was nothing to identify the place. No books, or magazines; empty drawers and a vacant bathroom. It was as impersonal as an hotel room. She could have found a Gideon Bible on the bedside table. The window looked out on to darkness. The linen was starched and cold as if it had been waiting a long time for a guest. ‘You’ll be safe here.’ She remembered the feeling, and knew what the room felt like. It was a safe house, like the other safe houses where she had hidden from the enemy. Only now the enemy was her own side, hunting her down because she was the only survivor of an old and shameful massacre. She and the Gestapo Standartenführer waiting in Marseilles prison. She thought of the young professional in the café. He was a familiar type; very fit, highly trained, blank-eyed. He’d know how to get a woman out of the way if she was being a nuisance to someone. Then all they had to do was make certain Eilenburg didn’t come to trial. At his age it wouldn’t be too difficult. The secret of what happened to the hero Jean Dulac and his heroic network would stay in some government file, and the guilty would die peacefully, old men full of honours.

Katharine Alfurd kicked off her shoes. ‘Like hell they will,’ she said aloud to the bare walls. ‘Like hell they’ll shut me up and get away with it.’

He tried to wait patiently. He measured the length of his cell three times, and then sat down and read the Bible they’d given him, glancing through the Gospels with indifference, taking his mind off the coming visit. She was the difference between life imprisonment and a short sentence, he’d been told. You must think back and remember everything so that you can convince her when you meet. You mustn’t hesitate or get confused. She can save your last years from ignominy. She can give you an ironic victory over your judges. And we’ve brought her here; there is her photograph so you can search your memory and remember everything. As she was when you last saw her, and as she is today.

He wished his hands would stop trembling. Weakness, and age, he thought defensively. Not guilt. I’ve lived without guilt for all these years and my conviction isn’t shaken. I did the right thing for my country and I am not ashamed. I’ve marshalled all the facts and incidents and got my memory into focus. Now I’d better concentrate on this Christian nonsense, since it’s all they’ll let me read, and try to be quite calm until I’m sent for.… No watch, no means of telling the time. Ah, there, the door is opening.

Christian Eilenburg got up. The prison officer said coldly, ‘You’ve got visitors. Come with me.’ He followed with a firm step, and his blue eyes were bright and piercing as they used to be. He wondered if she would recognize him.

Katharine Alfurd stood up, and for a moment she felt Paul Roulier’s hand on her elbow, giving her support. She freed herself firmly. He was so old. Old and white-haired and frail, in the prison uniform. She would never have recognized him. There was a table between them, and a French prison officer who had to remain throughout the interview. He gave the old man a chair, and he sat down very slowly, stiff and uncertain in his movements. They put out chairs for her and for Paul Roulier. Roulier spoke first. ‘How are you today?’

The voice was surprisingly strong. ‘Better. I feel better every day. The doctors are pleased with me.’ The mouth turned down in sarcasm. ‘They don’t want me to have another heart attack.’

‘Nobody wants that,’ Roulier said. ‘This is Madame Alfurd.’

‘I know it is,’ Eilenburg said. There was an extraordinary moment when he looked at her, and for that moment, the years fell away. ‘Cecilie,’ he said. ‘You called me a filthy bastard.’

‘And so you were,’ she heard her voice say. It wavered, and without warning her eyes filled and overflowed with tears.

‘Don’t cry,’ Eilenburg said. ‘There’s no reason to cry now. You didn’t cry then. I remember how brave you were.’

‘Do you remember the others too? The ones you beat and crippled – the women you gave your men to torture –’ Roulier had eased his chair back, leaving them facing each other. He saw the French gaoler standing impassive at the side, hearing everything and showing nothing.

‘Yes,’ Eilenburg answered. ‘I can remember them if I want to. Some I respected, some I despised. Some of them, like your woman companion who was so terrified of rough handling, I pitied. I was sorry for them, sorry I had to treat them badly. But it was my duty. Was it your side’s duty to betray them to me? Have you asked yourself that?’

‘Yes, I have,’ Katharine answered. ‘That’s the only reason I’m here. I wouldn’t breathe the same air as you, if it wasn’t for that question. We had a traitor, a man who was working for you. He was never punished after the war. I did my damnedest and so did a lot of people in France, but when he was tried, people behind the scenes made sure he was acquitted. Why? Do you know why?’

‘Philippe Derain, the bookseller from Beaulieu,’ Eilenburg said softly, leaning towards her. ‘A double agent, working for both sides. Paid by us and paid by London. I read about that trial in Spain where I was hiding. You gave evidence against him; so did others. Nothing happened. He was set free. I remember thinking it was strange you should hate him so much when he saved your life. He got you released through the Abwehr. I was very angry at their interference. But perhaps a little relieved to see you go.’

She saw a smug little smile, proclaiming his softheartedness, and could have struck him. As she had struck Pierrot, the traitor. He leaned back in his chair.

‘The Abwehr lived to regret that association,’ he said. ‘I never trusted him. I wouldn’t have let him go on after we destroyed Dulac. But they insisted. He was their man. I had to cooperate at the time. Later, when I was in Marseilles in charge, I couldn’t find him. He destroyed the evidence we wanted. So maybe that’s why he was protected afterwards. Maître Roulier, do you have a cigarette?’ He glanced at the prison officer. ‘I’m permitted to smoke?’ There was a brief nod.

‘Thank you. Ah, this is good.’

Katharine said slowly, ‘What evidence? What do you mean?’

‘Germany was fighting for her life,’ Eilenburg said. ‘Your armies were pushing on to the Rhine. You were mounting an invasion on the coast here. And that was when the traitors at home decided to strike. Some of them were here, in France. I came close to catching them, but Philippe Derain was paid by them. I said he was an Abwehr agent, didn’t I? He earned the blood-money they paid him for betraying Dulac and his people. Blood-money from both sides.’ He sucked greedily at the cigarette. ‘You accused him of that betrayal at his trial. It was fully reported in the Spanish papers. But you couldn’t prove it, Cecilie. Nobody could, because he’d done it so cleverly. Saying he worked for the Abwehr wasn’t enough. Saying he got you released wasn’t evidence that he’d denounced his Resistance comrades to the Gestapo. It should have convicted him but it didn’t because there was a piece of the puzzle missing.’

‘What was it?’

‘His instructions from London,’ Eilenburg replied. The blue eyes glittered like sapphires in a skull. ‘Instructions to hand over Jean Dulac to us, and destroy his network. He didn’t succeed because Dulac was warned and got away. So your own people pronounced the death sentence. They sent that radio message, didn’t they? Knowing what the results would be.’

He rubbed out the exhausted cigarette stub in a tin ashtray. ‘I’ll stand trial for what your people will call war crimes. I’ll be abused and vilified and they’ll drag out the old insults like the “Butcher of Marseilles”. But you know that the men who sent Dulac and the Maquis out on to the streets to fight on a false message were the ones who are really guilty. I did my duty to my country and my Führer. I would do it all again. But they’ll escape. Unless you stand up and tell the truth. This time, they won’t be able to hide from it.’

‘Your time is up,’ the officer announced. The chairs scraped back, Eilenburg needed help to get to his feet. He held out his hand. ‘Whatever you think of me,’ he said to her, ‘I was true to my beliefs and to my own people.’ Katharine stared at the hand, skinny and wrinkled and not very steady.

She turned her back on him. They walked out into the brilliant sunshine, and she shivered. ‘Do you believe in hell?’ she asked Roulier suddenly.

He looked surprised. ‘No. Why, do you?’

‘There must be a place for people like him,’ she said. ‘There must be a hell. Did he expect me to shake his hand? To touch him?’

‘Apparently. He doesn’t see himself as guilty of anything.’ He opened the car door for her. ‘How do you see him?’ Katharine asked. ‘He called you Maître – are you his lawyer?’

‘I’m his lawyer’s assistant,’ Roulier admitted.

‘You said you weren’t working for the Germans,’ she reminded him. ‘That was a lie, then.’ He started the car and they moved out into the traffic.

‘It was true; my client isn’t German. You’re blaming me for taking the case, aren’t you, Kate?’ She shrugged, looked away from him out of the window.

‘Lawyers can’t take sides,’ she said. ‘I suppose the money’s good. Where are we going now?’

‘Back to the villa,’ he answered. ‘You wanted to meet my employer. They’ll be there this morning.’

The man looking for Kate Alfurd had a French counterpart. They liaised in a café at Juan les Pins. It was full of young holidaymakers, a paradise for the jeans and pop brigade who swarmed over the town. The cafés and restaurants were full; the discos bulged and blared. There was an atmosphere of gaiety and exuberance that was infectious to the visitor whose youth was in the past. The two men blended well; if they were a little too well-built, thick-necked and muscled in their T-shirts and shorts, it wasn’t noticed. They huddled in a corner drinking lager and talking quietly with the noise of a live group belting out over their heads.

‘Bad news,’ the Frenchman said. ‘The lawyer brought a woman to see him this morning. The description fits. It’s her, and she’s vanished.’

‘Shit,’ the Englishman muttered. ‘I thought I’d got her this morning. Guess where? The Hôtel du Cap! I got the name from the police. When I went there they stonewalled.’

‘They would,’ his companion scowled. ‘Have to protect the millionaires. She’d left, then?’

‘No; not checked out, I got that much from the reception. It was as easy as pulling teeth to get them to say anything. I hung around, and I didn’t get the feeling I was exactly welcome. I bought a drink at the bar, and do you know how much it cost me?’ He named an astronomical sum. The Frenchman whistled in sympathy. ‘After a long wait, while they didn’t see me on purpose,’ he grumbled. ‘No sign of her or the man. So I left. I staked out the entrance and the way down to the Eden Roc, but they weren’t in the restaurant or on the beach. I didn’t bloody know she was in Marseilles. All I can do is stick it out till she gets back. If I show up there again I’ll get thrown out.’

His companion had a dour, ill-tempered face. ‘I’ll pay a visit,’ he promised. ‘They won’t be funny with me. I’ll get the information, and if she’s there, I’ll let you know. Then it’s up to you.’

They paid for their drinks and left. That afternoon, when the patrons of the hotel were drifting down to take tea on the terrace, and coming up from the tennis court, the receptionist was faced with a young man of hostile attitude who demanded to see the manager. Before the receptionist could say he wasn’t available, the ID of the SEDEC was thrust in front of him. The French Secret Service was not impressed by wealth or privilege; the manager was found and came to the foyer in a hurry. After ten minutes spent in his private office, he escorted the young man upstairs and personally stood by while he went into Katharine Alfurd’s room and checked her belongings. They came out together and down the handsome spiral stair, back into the private office at the rear. ‘When the lady comes back,’ the manager was told, ‘you will immediately ring this number.’ He was left with the card in his hand, and the slam of his own door echoing after his visitor.

They had left the villa by the same back stairs that morning. Kate had glimpsed a magnificent garden with lawns and flower beds through the trees as they sped down the back drive and out on the road to Marseilles. They returned and drove through the front gate. The façade was beautiful. White stucco, delicate wrought iron, a balustrade spilled over by geraniums, and a king palm standing at a majestic height in the centre of the gravelled sweep. A manservant opened the front door and they were in a cool, tall marble hall.

A massive flower arrangement of hothouse lilies and rare orchids stood on a scagliola centre table. ‘In here, please.’ The servant opened a door and stood aside for them. Roulier led the way. It was a soft green room, full of flowers, a refuge from the heat outside. Beautiful early French furniture, a pair of Regency lacquer commodes that belonged in a museum; over the fireplace a famous Renoir, discreetly lit.

Kate stood and looked round her. The safe house was safe no longer. She could feel the presence even before she saw the woman. She got up from a deep chair and came towards them. She was small and greyhound thin, with a face so perfectly made up that it was like a beautiful mask. A mask that showed no trace of age but wasn’t young. Large brown eyes with a gentle expression in them, and a painted red mouth with tight lips that opened slowly in a smile. She moved with grace, like an actress crossing a stage, and a diamond flashed blue fire from the folds of her silk dress.

‘Madame Vigier,’ Paul Roulier said formally, ‘may I present Madame Alfurd.’

‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’ The voice was light and sweet. ‘I am so sorry we didn’t meet last night, but I was dining with friends. I hope you were comfortable.’

‘Very comfortable, thank you,’ Kate replied.

‘Please sit down. Has Paul told you about me?’ She indicated a sofa, and Kate followed her and sat down. The woman moved beside her. Another diamond blazed from her hand as she settled the folds of her skirt.

‘I am Antoinette Vigier, and you are my guest while you’re in France. Paul, how did this morning go?’ She had a smooth authority; more than authority, it was power. When she spoke people listened, and her questions would always be answered.

He said, ‘Very well, Madame. Very satisfactory.’

‘And how is he?’ The voice was tender.

‘Better; stronger.’ A look passed between them, which Kate saw. Roulier said, ‘Excuse me; I have some calls to make,’ and left them alone as arranged.

‘Madame Vigier,’ Kate turned towards her, ‘you say I’m your guest. Are you employing Paul Roulier? Are you the client he talks about?’

‘Yes, I am.’ The big brown eyes looked at her out of that ageless face, and they were old and sad.

‘Why are you helping Christian Eilenburg?’

She gave a little smile. ‘You’re very direct, Madame. You don’t waste time, do you?’

‘No,’ Kate answered. ‘Nor do you, I think. I would like some kind of explanation before I commit myself any further.’

‘Of course. It must have seemed strange to you, all the secrecy, Paul coming out of the blue to see you. But there was a need, you see. I had to be protected or I couldn’t help my husband. That answers your question, Madame Alfurd. I am Christian’s wife, not that woman he married in Chile. He married me in 1945, just before he had to flee to Spain.’ She saw Kate glance at her jewelled hand and the wedding ring on it, and again she smiled.

‘I always hoped to join him, but it wasn’t possible. So I married again; twice, both of them very nice men, and as you can see, very very rich. I am a widow now, unfortunately. If I hadn’t met Christian, I would still be scrubbing floors in some hotel round here.’

She reached for a silver box. ‘Will you smoke? No – how wise. I can’t give it up, I’m afraid. It makes my doctor very cross.’

‘You married him,’ Kate said slowly, staring at her. ‘You married Eilenburg in 1945? You’re French – you’re from the Midi –’ It was like a nightmare; the beautiful woman, smiling and talking in her soft voice, the Frenchwoman who had married the war criminal and was paying for his defence.

‘I met him here,’ Antoinette Vigier said. ‘I was a little chambermaid at the Hôtel Negresco. The hotel receptionist was a pig; he sent me upstairs because the German officer wanted a girl, and he couldn’t find one, so he told me to go. Or be sacked, of course. So I went. I was so terrified, Madame, I was a poor little virgin and I didn’t know what the German beast was going to do with me. Do you know what he did? He sent me away. He said, “I asked for a prostitute, not a human sacrifice.” I was so frightened, I said, “I am a prostitute.” I can see it now, Madame, I can see this amazing man, so handsome, so proud, being kind to me in his own way. Nobody had ever been kind to me before! Nobody. But this young man, so beautiful – like a god.’

‘I don’t want to hear,’ Kate said. ‘What happened with you and him is nothing to do with me.’ The hand on her arm was surprisingly strong.

‘You don’t want to listen because it’s not a horror story. If I told you he had ill-treated me, threatened me, you’d sit still and say nothing. You asked for explanations, I didn’t offer them. I became Christian’s mistress. I fell in love with him and I am still in love with him. We lived together in this house. Twenty years ago I got my second husband to buy it for me. I didn’t care how much it cost. I wanted to be here and remember my time with Christian.’

‘Why didn’t you go to him?’ Kate asked. She felt numb and sick. ‘Why didn’t you join the other sadists and murderers hiding out there with him?’

Antoinette Vigier got up and stood facing her. Two red patches burnt on each cheek, like dabs of paint. ‘What hypocrites you people are,’ she said. ‘Sadists and murderers because they were Germans. The Frenchmen who butchered young soldiers as they slept, the women who saw men die of strychnine poison that they’d given them, they were heroes and heroines of the Resistance!

‘What did the torturers of the OAS do to their prisoners in the Algerian war? What did the Russians do when they marched into Berlin? What does every nation do to its enemies today, when we’re supposed to be at peace? Christian was at war. I was with him the night his German fiancée was killed by English bombers, nursing the sick in hospital! How many children died in the fire storm at Cologne? Nagasaki, Hiroshima? Oh, you make me sick, Madame Alfurd, with your double standards. At least I am honest. I loved him and I didn’t ask what he did in the course of his duty. And I’m not going to stand by and let them drag him out and put him on exhibition in a courtroom while the collaborators and the crooks who profited from what he did, here in Nice and Cannes, pass judgement on him! And I know them, believe me –’ She began to pace up and down, twisting her hands together, working herself into a passion as she went on. ‘How do you think I was provided for? How do you think I got away and made a new life for myself where I wasn’t known? Men here who owed him favours and didn’t want me talking about them – they paid to get me out. Otherwise I’d have been paraded with my head shaved, while the old bitches spat in my face and the men punched me in the breasts – and then sent to prison! No, Madame Alfurd, you were one of the heroines, and your lover has a statue to him in Nice, where every year people lay wreaths. He was a patriot. Christian, fighting for his cause and his country, is the “Butcher of Marseilles”. Well,’ she stopped, then swung round on Kate again, ‘we shall see when the trial comes. Paul tells me your Intelligence people are hunting for you – they don’t want you and Christian to exchange information. Naturally, they can’t afford that. They have to protect their own heroes, don’t they? And they will, my dear Madame, even if it means pushing you under a motorcar to stop you talking. Now.’ She made a visible effort, drew a deep breath and composed herself. ‘Now, let’s have a drink and try to be calm. I apologize if I’ve been rude to you. But this has been a terrible ordeal for me, too.’ She turned away and Kate saw her blink back tears.

Kate said, ‘I won’t help him. He killed my friends. There was a girl I worked with; she was caught and they raped her till she gave me away. Then she was shot. Don’t ask me to excuse that. I don’t know how any woman could excuse it to herself.’

‘He told me about her,’ Antoinette Vigier said. She had regained her composure. ‘She was a victim of the war; and a victim of her own people who betrayed her to the Gestapo. What about that, Madame Alfurd? If I can make excuses for Christian, can you excuse them?’

Kate said very slowly, feeling as if she were choking with anger, ‘No, I can’t. And that’s why I’m here.’

‘Then I will call Paul back, and we shall have a drink and be friends,’ Antoinette Vigier declared. ‘If not friends, allies at least until the trial is over.’ She rang a bell and the manservant appeared. ‘Ask Maître Roulier to come in,’ she said. ‘You saw him today.’ She turned back to Kate. ‘I can’t go, you understand. All I have is other people’s reports – how did he look?’

‘Old,’ she answered coldly. ‘White-haired and shaky. I wouldn’t have recognized him in a million years.’

‘But his spirits were high?’ The question was asked anxiously.

‘They seemed to be. He had a lot of facts to hand, he seemed to remember everything as if it were yesterday. I imagine,’ she didn’t hide her sarcasm, ‘he’s been briefed.’

Antoinette Vigier brushed that aside. ‘Of course. He needs help if he’s going to defend himself. Paul is very thorough; quite a number of people have been helpful, apart from you.’

‘French people?’ Kate asked.

‘Yes, in fact we even found a little woman living in Paris whose husband had been in the Resistance, and your friend Jean Dulac had him murdered because he thought he’d agreed to work for the Gestapo. When she discovered that, she worked for the Gestapo. I went to see her; it was quite fascinating.’

‘Her husband’s name was Louis Cabrot,’ Kate said quietly. ‘I remember. She betrayed us.’

‘Wouldn’t you have done the same?’ The soft voice asked the question, and Kate couldn’t answer. ‘It isn’t all black and white, is it? The poor devil hadn’t done anything wrong; he was too ill to be questioned, and Christian sent him home. That will come out at the trial too.’

‘She’s agreed to give evidence?’ Kate asked her.

‘Yes; she feels very bitter even now. She has given a deposition and she has promised to come as a witness. What will interest you is that the poor woman would never have known what the Resistance did if one of its own members hadn’t told her. She said he came and showed her a newspaper report. The German doctors had already told her her husband had been murdered. Naturally she didn’t believe them. But she believed him. He had an odd code name. Harlequin –’

‘Pierrot,’ Kate corrected. ‘My God, that’s how he did it. Through Cabrot’s widow.’

Roulier came in and she heard Madame Vigier ask if he would get them a drink. He spoke to Kate, ‘There’s champagne, whisky, gin, what would you like?’

‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Anything. But not champagne, thanks very much.’

‘Now,’ Antoinette Vigier announced, ‘we will all feel better in a few minutes. More relaxed. Paul, will you explain our plan to Madame Alfurd?’

He cleared his throat. The intimacy that had grown up between them seemed no more than a pretence, a fiction he had created to gain her confidence. He was businesslike and cool, the front man for his rich employer.

‘I am preparing the case for Standartenführer Eilenburg’s defence,’ he said. ‘My colleague will lead.’ He mentioned one of the most famous defence lawyers in France. ‘Will you give a deposition stating everything that you have told me about the events in Nice at that time? Just facts, that’s all. And will you be prepared to come to court and take the witness stand? That’s really the most important part of all, if we’re to present a true defence. And if you are to expose the people who have protected themselves for all these years. I believe that is what you really want, isn’t it?’

Kate didn’t answer. She put down her drink. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I need time to think about it.’ For a moment the big dark eyes of Antoinette Vigier went black.

‘Think about your lover,’ she said. ‘You mentioned that girl who was captured … think about the people in London who deliberately betrayed them. If Christian is on trial, they should be tried with him. And you, Madame Alfurd – what did they do to you?’

She didn’t wait for Kate to answer, she ignored Roulier’s signal to stop. ‘To keep you quiet they ordered one of their own officers to marry you. To shut you up. They boxed you in without you even knowing it. Was it a happy marriage? A happy life? They’re hunting you now, and I meant what I said. You won’t be allowed to expose them if they find you. Believe me, a signed deposition is as much in your own interests as in ours. Once they know we have that, they won’t dare to harm you. I am going upstairs to change; I will see you at dinner.’

She closed the door and immediately Paul Roulier came and sat beside Kate. He took her hand and held it. ‘I’m sorry she said all that. I couldn’t stop her.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Kate answered. ‘You’ve really caught me, haven’t you, Paul? You’ve done a wonderful job for her. I hope she pays you a fat fee.’ She pulled her hand away.

‘Kate, listen to me. I know what I sounded like, but I had to satisfy her. If she thought I had any personal feelings she’d dismiss me right away.’

‘Personal feelings?’ she repeated. ‘What kind of personal feelings can you have in a case like this – you’re a professional, aren’t you? You have a job to do and you do it. I am part of that job, that’s all.’

‘It isn’t all,’ he said. ‘It was in the beginning, but it isn’t now. Lawyers and doctors should never get involved with clients or patients. I set out to persuade you to come here and help in Eilenburg’s defence. And it wasn’t just for money, either. I don’t like the English, I don’t trust them and everything I discovered while I was investigating this made me more convinced than ever that they fought to the last Frenchman through the Resistance.

‘I had no view either way when I met you. But it changed. It changed during the days we spent together and I began to see the past through your eyes. Kate, will you believe me when I say this? I admire you. I understand you and I love you for being the woman you are. If you want to get out of this now, I’ll take you to Nice airport and put you on the plane. Without any deposition.’ He got up, fumbled for a cigarette.

Kate said quietly, ‘You’d be ruined. She’d see to that.’

‘She won’t be in a position to ruin anyone if she goes through with this,’ he said. ‘She’s going into court to speak for him. She’ll destroy herself to try and save him. And more than herself.’

‘What do you mean?’

He sat opposite her this time, his head low. ‘That’s another thing you were never meant to know,’ he said. ‘Her last husband was Alfred Vigier, the socialist millionaire. Friend and adviser to President Mitterand. Just imagine what the scandal will do to the government when she announces that she was the mistress of the Gestapo chief who murdered French Resistance heroes and that she is paying for his defence!’

‘The wife,’ Kate corrected.

He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t legal. I didn’t tell her that; they went through some ceremony with a man who wasn’t accredited mayor. She got to Switzerland and married a Swiss after being his mistress for some years. Then when he died she came home and met Vigier and married him. When she goes to court she could bring down the government!’

‘And that was another motive?’ Kate said slowly. ‘She’s unbalanced, isn’t she, and you knew if you encouraged her to do this, what it would mean in political terms.’

‘Yes.’ He looked directly at her. ‘I did, and I wasn’t alone. Mitterand is a disaster for France. If we can help to bring him down by means of this trial, then it’s our duty to do it. And we will. But you don’t have to be a part of it. I don’t want that any more. I don’t want you at risk, and that’s what’s happened. Kate, go upstairs and get your things. She takes hours to dress; I’ll bring the car round.’ She stood up, finished the drink. She hadn’t even noticed what was in it.

‘You’re part of the Fascist Right,’ she said.

‘I’m a French patriot,’ he countered. ‘I shall come to England and see you. There’s no reason why you should live alone.’

‘I’m twenty years older than you are,’ she said quietly. ‘You could be my son.’

‘I could be your lover,’ he said. ‘Think of that. I have; many times since we met.’

Kate went over to the table and said, ‘I think I’ll have another drink. It doesn’t take me hours to dress before dinner. I’ll see you later, Paul.’

He went upstairs and knocked on Antoinette Vigier’s door. She was fully dressed, reading from a thick file. She took off her glasses and said, ‘Well? Have you convinced her?’

‘She was upset,’ he said. ‘For a moment I thought you had gone too far, Madame. Her private life is nothing to do with this.’

‘Oh yes it is,’ she countered. ‘I saw her face; she hadn’t been happy. She’d been cheated, and she knew it. Will she give the deposition? Will she give evidence?’

‘I think so,’ he answered. ‘I’ll try and get the deposition drawn up tonight and we can get it witnessed tomorrow. At least that will guarantee her safety.’

‘I’m not interested in her safety,’ Antoinette said coldly. ‘She hates my husband. Only personal revenge will make her help him. I think she’s influenced you, Paul. Has she?’

He said, ‘No,’ and it was convincing. ‘She’s a brave woman, and if you want her to help us, you mustn’t antagonize her. That’s my advice.’

She put on the glasses and picked up the papers. He was dismissed.

The evening was like a play; Kate felt as if she were on stage and an invisible audience was watching. Paul Roulier and Antoinette Vigier were fellow actors. The food was superb, the service silent and impeccable, there was candlelight and beautiful silver, with flowers on the table. The conversation was like dialogue written for the second act of a drama, before tragedy erupted. They talked about the weather, the garden, the shops in Antibes and the difficulty of getting well-trained servants; they discussed the merits of restaurants she’d never heard of, and Antoinette dismissed the Hôtel du Cap with a remark about it being full of Americans. Kate almost left the table when she said it. Oblivious, the other woman went on, ‘Of course it’s not what it used to be; my late husband knew it well before the war, his parents used to stay there. It was very select then. It was a convalescent home for wounded German soldiers during the war.’

The convoy that had challenged Jean Dulac, with its quota of senior Abwehr officers.… London’s reluctance to let him attack it. And the bitter opposition of Pierrot to the plan, which only changed to support when he knew that Dulac had been betrayed to the Gestapo. How much did the woman know about that? How much had Eilenburg discussed with her? The phrase came floating back through the tinkling voice of Eilenburg’s mistress, reminiscing about her last husband’s views on the hotel.

‘He destroyed the evidence we wanted … maybe that’s why he was protected afterwards.…’ In the turmoil she experienced at that meeting, she had heard something vital and overlooked it. What evidence had Pierrot, the traitor and double-agent, destroyed that so benefited the Allies that he was immune from justice? She leaned forward, and suddenly the air of play-acting disappeared. There was no stage, no artificial interlude. Everything was real again and charged with tension. ‘Madame Vigier, about the time our network was broken in May 1944, there was a changeover of the garrison at Antibes; some German officers were due to arrive at the Hôtel du Cap. Do you remember anything about them?’

Antoinette Vigier didn’t hesitate. ‘Oh, yes. We were living here at the time; I remember Christian going up to the hotel to have dinner with some of them. There was a general he was interested in.’

‘In what way interested?’ Kate asked her. She saw Roulier lean forward and put down his wine glass. He was paying very close attention.

‘He didn’t believe he was reliable,’ she said. ‘A number of the old Junker families were anti-Hitler. When he began to look like losing, of course. Christian hated them; he used to say to me, “We are from the ordinary people. These aristocrats only think of themselves. The Führer can’t rely on them as he can on the SS.” He didn’t trust the army, and of course he was right.’

She rang a bell and pushed her chair back. Kate noticed that Paul hadn’t moved to help her. She could feel him watching her. ‘Let’s go into the salon,’ Antoinette said. ‘We can take our coffee there. And then,’ she gave Kate a charming smile, ‘Paul can draw up your deposition.’ She swept past them out of the dining room. Kate followed quickly, avoiding Roulier.

They sat together and coffee was handed them by the same manservant who had served dinner. Antoinette Vigier gave a little yawn. ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘Will you excuse me if I go up early and leave you together?’

When they were alone, Paul said, ‘You’ve decided to go through with this? Won’t you think again?’

‘I’ve come this far,’ Kate said, ‘and I’m not going back now. I’m not signing any deposition till I’ve seen Eilenburg again. When can you arrange it?’

‘You’ve got to tell me why,’ he insisted. ‘Something she said about the German officers and the general – what did it mean to you?’

‘Nothing that’s going to help your client,’ she said. ‘But it might answer a very important question for me. I’ve got to see him again – God, I let it pass this morning without following it up. What a fool!’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ he demanded. ‘We’ve worked together all the way on this – Kate, please trust me. What did Eilenburg say that you missed?’

She lifted the lid of the silver cigarette box. Gauloise. She lit one, and the strong tobacco smell evoked him instantly. The sensitive face with the very dark eyes, the lean body and the artist’s hands. The pain of that memory brought a hand to her heart in the oldest reflex action of grief. How many times had he lit a cigarette and passed it to her, when they lay side by side?

And that other memory, jostling him out of the way, a man with bright blue eyes and white-blond hair, saying in his Germanic French, ‘He had no intention of betraying anything or anyone … especially where you were hiding.… So he threw himself out of the window.’ No, she couldn’t trust Paul Roulier any more. His motives and hers were not the same. He wanted a scandal, seeing a political advantage. She wanted the truth about why the man she loved and all her friends had had to die. She got up. ‘If you want me to sign a deposition, Paul, I’ll do it after I’ve seen Eilenburg. Now I’m going up to bed. I’m tired too, as it happens. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.’

He stood in front of the door. ‘I told you; I don’t want you to stay. I don’t want you to be involved. Go home; let your people know you’ve withdrawn from all this, and there won’t be any trouble then.’

‘I’m sure there won’t,’ she said quietly. ‘But I’m near the answer to a question that’s got to be answered. What use I’ll make of it depends on what it is. Good night.’

There was no sign of Antoinette Vigier the next morning. When Kate came downstairs there was an empty feel about the house. She wandered through to the salon, and everything was cool and shuttered, as if nobody had been there for a long time. She felt someone behind her and swung round, startled. It was the smooth old manservant, asking if she would like to breakfast in the conservatory.

She said thank you, and followed him. There was no one else in the pretty glass-walled annexe. ‘Where is Maître Roulier?’ she asked.

‘He left early, Madame.’ And Madame Vigier herself – she did not come down till midday, was the answer. Kate poured coffee, and pushed the fruit and croissants aside. She didn’t feel hungry or rested, in spite of a deep sleep that was near to exhaustion. The conservatory was full of houseplants and exotics. She felt claustrophobic, as if the green growing things that climbed the walls were moving towards her.

The atmosphere of the villa was like the woman who owned it. Beautiful, lavish and distorted, an island of fantasy in the sea of real life.

And then there was the man so much younger than she was, who had brought her here, and was trying to persuade her to leave before the end and abandon the quest. He had said he loved her. ‘There’s no reason why you should live alone.… I could be your lover.’ It would be a poisoned love affair, as sick as the passion that motivated the woman in her room upstairs, who’d carried it with her through two marriages and forty years. As twisted as the love Pierrot felt for her, so that he rescued her from the fate he’d brought the others. And yet he’d also loved his crippled wife; she’d seen his tenderness towards her. Sexual desire for Kate hadn’t altered his love for the other, helpless woman.

‘I’ve one more thing to do here, and then I shall be taking my wife to a safe place.’ His wife had been alive in 1947, but that was so long ago. She hadn’t been in the court when Kate gave evidence and he watched her from the dock. He had walked out a free man. And then died in a car crash eight years later. He was alone. She got up hurriedly, and went out into the passage and the large entrance hall. Through into the salon again, searching for a telephone. There it was, discreetly hidden on a side table near the sofa – one of the latest designs, unobtrusive in the midst of bronzes and porcelain and enamelled boxes. She lifted it and dialled enquiries. It didn’t take long. A Madame Derain was listed in apartment C, 23 rue de Tivoli in Beaulieu. Kate said thank you, and put the phone back. Apartment C, 23 rue de Tivoli. It had taken her three hours to bicycle there from Nice. So early in the morning, just after curfew was lifted, when there was no traffic on the roads. There was a bell by the fireplace. She pressed it, and the manservant came in, wearing an apron and carrying a cleaning cloth. She got the impression that he resented being rung for by her.

‘I need a taxi,’ she said. ‘Is there a taxi you use nearby?’

‘Madame uses her car,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Madame.’

‘Never mind,’ Kate said briskly. ‘I’ll find one for myself.’

It was a glorious day. She walked quickly down the well-kept drive, anxious to be out of the grounds, as far away from the villa as possible. She wondered whether Antoinette Vigier knew she had left and was watching from behind a curtain in a window above. She didn’t look back.

Philippe Derain’s widow was sitting with her back to the window. The bright sunshine made a halo of her white hair. She stared at the woman who had announced herself as Madame Alfurd, from England. Her voice was sweet and clear.

‘I don’t think I know you, Madame,’ she said. ‘I don’t recognize your name.’

‘I married after the war,’ Kate said.

Philippe’s widow had aged very little except for the snow-white crown; her face was pale with the ethereal look of the sick, and her hand when Kate shook it was like a dried leaf. She moved the wheelchair with the touch of a button and it swivelled round. ‘Please sit down,’ she invited. ‘Forgive me for not recognizing you. When did we meet?’

‘In May 1944,’ Kate answered. ‘You and your husband sheltered me from the Gestapo.’

‘We sheltered many people,’ was the reply. ‘What was your name then?’

Kate said, ‘I didn’t have a name, Madame. Only a code, it wouldn’t mean anything to you. I worked with your husband for a time. You know that Eilenburg is going to be tried for war crimes against the Resistance?’

‘Yes.’ The voice was unemotional. ‘I’ve read about it and seen it on television. He looked such an old man. I wonder what good it does to bring up the past.’

‘A lot of people feel like that,’ Kate said. ‘But I don’t agree with them. He killed my friends, and one of them committed suicide rather than give way to torture. I think he should be punished.’

The lips turned upward in a sad smile. ‘What a vengeful person you must be,’ she said. ‘Nothing can bring them back. Nothing can bring my husband back, and it wasn’t the Germans who sabotaged his car. It wasn’t a German who stood up in court and tried to get him hanged after the war. Why did you do it? Didn’t you care that he saved your life?’

Kate said slowly, ‘Why did you pretend not to know me, Madame Derain?’

The thin shoulders lifted slightly. ‘I wondered what you wanted, coming here after what you did to Philippe, after all these years. Of course I recognized you. You haven’t changed so much, and I had good reason to remember you. Philippe was in love with you, after all.’

‘There was nothing between us,’ Kate protested.

Again she smiled. ‘And if there had been? Do you think I’d have grudged him a little happiness when I couldn’t give it to him myself? That wasn’t important to me. Why have you come here, Cecilie? I remember the name too; he used to talk about you. Even afterwards when you tried so hard to destroy him.’

‘I want to find out the truth,’ Kate said. ‘Philippe betrayed the network. He worked for the Germans and for Britain. I was Jean Dulac’s lover, and by chance I saved him from arrest. Why, Madame Derain? Why did your husband do it? Every word of my evidence was the truth. Who was he really working for?’

‘Why didn’t you ask London?’ came the answer. ‘Surely you knew the answer was with your own people – they didn’t let him be convicted because they dared not. So they arranged for a car crash later on.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Kate said slowly. ‘Nobody would murder him years later. Why?’

‘Because he knew the truth you talk about,’ she said. ‘The real facts behind the lies and deceptions and betrayals. He was approached to write his memoirs of the war, did you know that? Some friend in the book trade thought it would make a lot of money. Philippe said no, but someone must have heard and been afraid he might be tempted. So the brakes on his car failed on the Grand Corniche, and he went over the edge. I had it investigated privately. The police were not concerned. After all, he was suspected of treason during the war, in spite of being acquitted. People prefer to believe the worst, don’t they? His death didn’t interest anyone except me. Probably they said, “Serve him right”. So the truth died with him. Except that he had talked to me and I know what really happened.’

Kate said after some moments, ‘I saw Eilenburg yesterday. He said Philippe destroyed evidence the Germans wanted. Madame Derain, do you know what he meant? It could change everything. It could clear Philippe’s name! It could put the guilt where it belongs!’

‘And where is that?’ the woman asked gently. ‘Are you still pursuing vengeance?’

‘No. Not vengeance. Justice. I’ve lived with lies for all these years, because I was persuaded to accept them. I’ve been the guilty one. I want to make sense of Jean’s death; I want to know why a girl I trained with was brutalized and degraded and then shot like a dog, why all those men were killed at the power station, and why an Englishman who couldn’t speak a word of French was sent over here, for what? I beg you, tell me what really happened!’

‘What will you do with it, if I tell you?’

Kate said, ‘I don’t know. Make it public if I can.’

Madame Derain examined her fragile hands, twisted the wedding ring round and round and then said suddenly, ‘If an accident was arranged for Philippe, they won’t let you speak out.’

‘You’re the second person who’s said that,’ Kate said. ‘And it’s true. I came here and within a few days, I was being followed. But I got away and nobody knows where I am. If you’ll give me the information I can protect myself, I promise you.’

She waited; the room was hot and silent and the woman in the wheelchair was very still. At last she spoke. ‘Philippe was the real hero,’ she said. ‘They put up a statue to that foolish man you loved, while my husband’s reward was suspicion and shame. You will find a bottle of wine through there, Madame. If we are going to talk about the past, we’ll need something to give us courage.’